Men think they're a'hunting women, because that's how their mamas raised 'em. It's the women a'fishing, catching, and releasing.- Ye Olde Virginia
OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- It's rude, yes, to stare. Even if one is staring out of admiration, staring at something wondrous and beautiful and as full of magic as any old European fairy tale.
And, well, I guess I should be somewhat ashamed, guess I deserve to be scolded like a pubescent child.
Will ya look at those cutoff denim shorts? The go all the way up! Cut so high they're almost... blue jean panties!
And that ass! Oh my! That perfectly proportioned, round bubble of a buttocks! There couldn't be more than a few dozen frayed indigo threads seperating her ass from the world...
Thank God for women with big asses!
* * * *The young woman couldn't have been any older than nineteen or twenty, shimmying and swishing her way down the aisle, ten paces ahead of me. Her shopping cart was full of baked potato chips and celery and Diet Coke, a few discount DVDs, some premixed cartons of SlimFast shakes...
Lord, how I hoped those diet foods weren't due to some insane idea of what the perfect female body is supposed to look like, some fad booty-killing weight-loss regimen, some jog-a-holic, tanorexic, fashion rag group fingerbang...
If it weren't for women's asses, straight guys and lesbians would have nothing to stare at in the grocery stores of the world, nothing to witness and to worship and to lust after like barbarians and warrior princesses.
Hey, spend all the time you want in the Rec Center, girl, just don't lose that butt...
* * * *
I was too deep in thought, too far gone into the most perverse corners of my own mind, to notice that the young woman had stopped suddenly in front of the canned whipped cream.
Canned whipped cream. I will not describe what was going through my mind, my friends.
I stopped my shopping cart on a dime, just quick enough to avoid possibly bruising such marvelous, sculptured flesh. Unfortunately, the sudden stop did not spare my own flesh. I'd shoved the handle downward to halt the cart, sent the front of the buggy skyward as I dug my heels into the linoleum.
The back corner of the handle swung down, straight into my crotch.
The woman looked over her shoulder and smiled. I tried to smile back, tried to grin through my scrotal agony. A foot more and there would've been a collision.
* * * *
And just as I began to regain my composure, my decency in this modern, flaccid, sexless society the religious nuts and the Sex-Negative feminists have worked so hard to create...
Be cool, dude. Be fucking cool! Down, boy, down!
Homegirl decided that, well, she just had to bend over, as slow as humanly possible, to reach back into the cooler for that last can of pressurized fat-free, non-dairy sweetness, just had to arch her back and press her tank-top covered breasts up against that cold metal rail as she did it...
Don't stare! You dirty ol' fucker, don't do it! She's not doing it on purpose! Women just don't do that anymore...
My God! I can't even find the words to document the vision I witnessed in that dairy aisle -- yes, a Jim - Morrison - dreaming - of - naked - Indians - in - the - desert VISION, by God! And no, no psychotropic drugs, no hallucinogens, and no peyote were involved.
Some observances defy human language, spit into the faces of priests and whores, are unspoken because, well, to speak such words alone could freeze time, cure death, end political bickering forever and a day...
Basically, we're talking some serious ass here.
* * * *
There were no panties beyond those few dozen strands of indigo thread - just skin. But there was a piercing. It gleamed in the cold fluorescent light, twinkled like a shiny new coin at the bottom of a wishing well in the noonday sun.
And no, it wasn't some tired, objectified cliché staring me in the face, not some rosebud or precious, delicate flower or some mysterious symbol of some Goddess. It was an ass and a vagina, labia and trimmed hair and tanned legs, all woman - glorious, marvelous woman - save for a hoop run through a clitoris.
Women are, well, so much more than the mere sum of their parts. So why not examine those parts, really? Nobody, in the moment, worries about subjectivities or objectivities - sexy has always been defined, by all genders, in terms of quality and quantity.
"Oh. I'm sorry. I'm not in your way, am I?"
She looked back again, smiled. I tried to look away, to be a gentleman and not make eye contact, to be that modern robotic beast that the more puritanical and boring elements of the Western World wish we'd all become.
"Oh no! Take your time, hon... if you find another can, could ya grab me one..."
Some women sure take their sweet-ass time digging through a cooler for that last can of gooey, creamy goodness. And wiggle their asses, just a little bit, while they do it.
Not that I'm complaining, really.
* * * *
Feel free to call me a sexist pig or a misogynistic tool of the Patriarchy.
The greatest fallacy of 20th century Western Thought is that somehow humanity can create a sexless society whilst still being able to actually enjoy things like sex, sexiness, or even the flashing of a bit of skin. To live in a truly sexless society would be to live in a dead society. Sex is, well, life. Those who seek to create a sex-neutral world seek only to neutralize humanity itself.
And thank the powers that be! That sex-free crackpipe of a dream is beginning to die, along with the old prudes and cultish TV preachers who've been pitching it in books, magazines, and broadcasting outlets for the past 50 years...
There's nothing like a perfect ass and a clit piercing to remind a guy that he is, indeed, alive, to remind women that they are alive and free, too, that we are all liberated by our own sex drives, free to do with our bodies what we want, audience be damned.
* * * *
Whipped cream. Whipped fucking cream. She just had to go for the whipped motherfucking cream, didn't she?
"Hey, you work in ____ Library, right? I see you in there all the time..."
I wonder, really, how many times she goes commando when she visits the library?
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